


Co-Dependent

by harsassypotters



Series: Merlin fics! [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Humor, Magic Reveal, Sir Leon the Long Suffering, Uther Pendragon's A+ Parenting (Merlin), arthur is utterly codependent on merlin, attempts at poetry, canon just got yeeted out of a window, uther tries to be a jerk and it backfires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:20:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28049880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harsassypotters/pseuds/harsassypotters
Summary: And then it hits Uther, like a fork of lightning: "Fine, then, no Merlin for a week.""Oh, no," one of the knights, Sir Leon, gasps.Arthur, whose jaw has been hanging open this entire time, finally regains his abilities of speech. "What?" he says. "No Merlin?"+++As punishment for Arthur's disobedience, Uther bans all contact with his manservant for a week.It works out about as well as you could expect.
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Merlin fics! [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2053980
Comments: 160
Kudos: 430





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i posted this?? but the dates were wonky and it showed up WAY behind on the fandoms page?? so i'm posting it again now ig.
> 
> to all the commenters from last edition: thank you so much for your comments! They truly brought a smile to my face. I'm sorry I had to delete them when I deleted the fic. 
> 
> i have no idea when this takes place?? the knights and sane!uther and good!morgana can all coexist okay

This, Uther decides, is all Merlin's fault. 

Before the boy waltzed into Camelot and consistently began showing up in the wrong place at the wrong time, Arthur was normal. He completed his duties as Crown Prince. He took care of the paperwork Uther was too lazy to do himself. He was respectful and obeyed his father's wishes.

He didn't ride full tilt through the gates to pick flowers for his manservant, never mind that the flower in question was supposed to save the boy's life after an unfortunate incident with a Mercian delegation, a party-crashing sorceress, and a cup of poison. He didn't fake his death to stave off trolls' love potions.

And he _certainly_ didn't ignore all his responsibilities for the day to go and visit a _festival_ with said manservant.

"Are you aware, Arthur," Uther says through gritted teeth, "that you still have a flower crown in your hair?"

Arthur, from his position in the middle of the throne room, doesn't even have the sense to look ashamed. "Yes, Father."

Merlin, who's loitering at the back of the throne room near the doors, presumably to be able to make a run for it at the earliest opportunity, tries to cover up his laugh as a violent coughing fit. 

"And are you aware," Uther continues, "how badly it reflected on me when you and your manservant rode off into the forest, you waving a middle finger behind you?"

Arthur's mouth quirks. "Yes, Father."

Morgana smirks.

"And are you _aware_ ," Uther repeats, getting quite desperate now, "that something must be done about your complete and utter co-dependence on your manservant?"

_This_ finally gets a reaction out of his son. " _Co-dependence?_ " he squawks, looking far too outraged.

"Yes, Arthur," Uther says. "Don't you think you rely a bit too heavily on him?"

Arthur looks to Merlin.

Merlin shakes his head.

Arthur turns back to Uther. "No, I don't think so, Father."

Oh, _God._

Well. This is okay. Uther has a plan. Yes. The plan. The plan to fix Arthur. Yes. _That_ plan. 

"As punishment for your irresponsible and ill-advised disobedience," Uther says, puffing his chest out, "I forbid you from leaving your room for a week."

In retrospect, that sounded more authoritative in his head. 

Arthur must think along the same lines, because he doesn't even flinch. "I need to lead patrols, Father."

Oh. "Well, then, no weapons."

"I need that for training the knights, Father."

Hmm. "No hunting, then."

Arthur heaves a very put-out sigh, as if he has a multitude of other things he'd rather be doing. Which is a surprise to Uther, because the last time he bothered to host a proper conversation with his son--which was, admittedly, two years ago--Arthur seemed dead-set on doing whatever it took to please him. "The kitchens need the food I hunt, Father."

And then it hits Uther, like a fork of lightning: "Fine, then, no Merlin for a week."

Everyone freezes.

Uther isn't using that as a metaphor. Literally _everyone_ freezes: Arthur, Merlin, the courtiers who were trying their best to look disinterested by the fight and not like they were having the time of their lives, the servants. Even the one pouring his wine is apparently so shocked he's unable to move an inch, and the liquid overflows out of the goblet.

"Oh, _no_ ," one of the knights, Sir Leon, gasps.

And Uther would be furious about that, he really would, except he has _no idea what the hell is going on_.

Unfortunately, "Um. What," is not a very regal phrase, so he settles on, "Is there a problem?" And raising an eyebrow, because that always works for Gaius whenever he doesn't want anyone to argue with him.

However, it's Gaius who speaks up. "Sire," he says hesitantly, "are you sure that's a good idea?"

Uther turns to him, but is interrupted by Morgana. "Yes, sire," she says, sounding frantic, "perhaps we should think of something else?"

Morgana should be throwing galas at the thought of Arthur being inconvenienced in any sort of way, so why is she gripping the arms of her chair so tightly he knuckles are bone-white?

"I agree with Lady Morgana, sire," Leon says meekly. "I--I don't think this will turn out well."

All the other knights nod fervently, some going as far as to reach for their swords.

Goodness, is _this_ what will lead to a mutiny on Uther's hands? Not any of the executions, but _this_?

Arthur, whose jaw has been hanging open this entire time, finally regains his abilities of speech. " _What?_ " he says. "No Merlin?"

"No Merlin!" Uther agrees, relieved to have finally gotten through to his son. 

Everyone sucks in a breath simultaneously. Uther is legitimately concerned that the air supply might run out.

Merlin makes a sound halfway between a sob and scream. 

Thankfully, people clear out remarkably quickly after that, but as the doors of the throne room clang shut, Uther can swear he hears someone sobbing.

He likes to think it was Merlin, but the fact he knows will keep him awake at night is that it sounds more like Arthur.

He sighs.

+++

The knights call an emergency meeting after that, all of them crowding into the tiny armory. 

"I don't understand," Owain says. He's new and, bless his little heart, hasn't seen the things the rest of them have. "What's the big deal? What's going to happen?"

"That's the _problem_ ," Elyan says. "No one knows. No one's seen one without the other in five years. We're working in unfamiliar territory here."

"Last time Uther tried to keep Merlin and Arthur apart," Leon says, looking like he wants to grab the nearest ale flask, "Arthur nearly committed treason by riding away in the middle the night, had a run-in with a vengeful sorceress, and spent a week in the dungeon as a result. And that was after only, what? Two months?"

"I see," Owain says, not seeing anything. 

No one pays him much thought. "Everyone," Gwaine says seriously, "and I mean _everyone_ , must have at least one handkerchief on them at any given time. We can't list out uncontrollable sobbing from the symptoms of this...this _tragic divide_. And keep a list of motivational phrases in your pocket! Either of them might need it. And don't forget, under _any_ circumstances whatsoever, to never mention one to the other. You never know..." He continues on, all the knights listening intently--Lancelot is even taking notes--and Owain nearly sobbing from confusion.

+++

One of the finer points of being king, in Uther's opinion, is to give your subjects a strong illusion that you care deeply about their wellbeing. Which is what has caused him to start touring the lower town at least once a week.

Normally, it's pretty standard stuff: the shopkeepers sweep into bows and practically beg him to purchase their wares, the younger children who still have faith in society look up at him admiringly, and there's an occasional baby he has to kiss. 

But today, there is a considerably more muted atmosphere in the market: no one talks more than they have to, he has yet to have heard a laugh from anyone, and all the peasants seem to be wearing their darkest, most drab clothes.

Is there a protest of some sort going on that he wasn't made aware of?

Uther flags down a particularly gaunt-faced woman with smudges under her eyes so dark they look like bruises. "Can you explain to me the..." he waves his hand in a way he hopes will convey the _weirdness_ that has taken ahold of his entire kingdom lately, " _change_ in the atmosphere?"

She looks up at him exhaustedly. "We're mourning, sire."

_Mourning_? "And, may I ask, for what?"

"For _whom_ , sire," she corrects. "And I mean the Crown Prince."

Uther bristles. "What has happened to the Crown Prince?"

The woman heaves a deep, heartfelt sigh. "We heard that you had forbidden him from seeing his manservant for a week. And we, as citizens of Camelot, wanted to show our support for him in these trying, trying times." She shakes her head sadly. "We can only hope it will be enough to carry him until the end of the week."

No. No. Absolutely _not_. His entire kingdom has _not_ just been plunged into a state of grief because Arthur is kept from Merlin.

No later has Uther thought that than a poet steps on a crate and begins a long, tedious monologue, rambling about the tragedies of a 'young, cheery-eyed servant' being stolen from a 'gruff prince who had love in his heart for only one other.'

Illusions-about-caring-for-the-wellbeing-of-the-citizens be damned, Uther flees back to his chambers in the castle as soon as he can, feeling a particularly strong urge to bash his head against the wall. 

+++

After many hours in his chambers, Uther comes to conclusion that maybe, just maybe, this entire thing is his fault. After all, maybe if he hadn't pushed Arthur away so much, he wouldn't have felt the need to latch on to the one person who showed him affection, which was his manservant. 

Which is what leads to Uther summoning to his chambers for a one-on-one, familial supper.

Well, that's what he summons him _for_. In reality, the whole thing plays out quite differently.

Arthur is surly and moody the entire time, only speaking up to ruthlessly criticize the replacement servant that has just been assigned to him. Because no, no, _Merlin_ always filled up his goblet four-fifths of the way, not five-sixths, _honestly_ , and would he _please_ stop placing the meat on the right side of the plate, _Merlin_ had always placed it on the _upper_ -right side, and _no_ , how _dare_ he fold the napkin in that way, _Merlin_ always folded it up so it looked like a mutilated rooster, _and if he breathed in that un-Merlin-like one more time, Arthur was going to explode--_

Even the most patient of servants would be struggling not to throttle the Crown Prince right now, but, to Uther's surprise, the new servant just keeps shooting sympathizing glances and fixing his behavior per Arthur's request.

Uther wants to cry. If Arthur's like this during _day one_ , what will he be like tomorrow? In two days? By--and he shudders as he thinks of this-- _the end of the week_?

+++

Gaius really wishes he was doing better than Uther, but if his wishes were reality, Merlin would have gained some survival instincts a while ago.

"Do you think Arthur's all right?" Merlin asks for what must be the twenty-third time, awkwardly hovering over Gaius's shoulder as he prepares a potion.

Gaius pinches the bridge of his nose. " _Yes_ , Merlin, I highly doubt that he's somehow managed to kill himself in the three hours since you've seen each other."

"Well, obviously, he's not going to do it _himself_ ," Merlin says, as if he thinks Gaius is an idiot. "But what if a sorcerer snuck in? Or any magical creature, actually, now that I think about it--"

"I'm sure," Gaius says blandly, "that there would be a bit of a stir amongst the guards if there was a magical being lurking around Arthur's rooms."

"The guards aren't always very competent," Merlin insists. "They just march around, never even bothering to look to their left or right, eavesdropping on everyone--"

The guard outside Gaius's rooms, placed there to stop Merlin from sneaking out and reuniting with Arthur, makes an affronted noise.

"See?" Merlin says, waving his hands around. "Maybe if they spent that time looking for suspicious activity instead of proof that Lord Archibald has a son who's half-chicken--"

"He _does_ ," the guard calls.

Gaius pitches a sigh, corking the potion bottle in his hand. "Do you have a _point,_ Merlin?"

"Yes!" Merlin exclaims savagely. "Yes! I do indeed a point! And my point is this! Someone like Sophia could have snuck in and either tricked or seduced--"

" _Seduced_?"

"-- _seduced_ the guards and gotten to Arthur. He could be dead right now, or _bleeding_ to death, and in his last moments he could be thinking about how he should have been nicer to me. He could _die,_ Gaius, drowning in regret that he never appreciated me enough--"

"I am _sure_ ," Gaius says through gritted teeth, "that Arthur is fine."

"That's what you said about Morgana's dreams," Merlin accuses. "And you saw how _that_ worked out."

"Merlin," Gaius says, "Arthur is dining with Uther. I'm positive someone will notice if he starts bleeding to death."

"Oh. Okay." Merlin quiets, and Gaius has one moment to think that the miracle of all miracles has happened, but then Merlin starts again, "But--but Gaius? What if someone comes trying to kill _Uther_ , and Arthur gets in the way--"

Gaius wails. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Owain is confused, Uther is frustrated, Merlin deliberates the consequences of climbing onto the roof, and Arthur writes poetry. Also, Sir Leon the Long Suffering makes his entrance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry the update took so long lol
> 
> thank you for all the comments last chapter! <3

Being a knight, Owain decides right then and there, is not worth it.

" _ Gentlemen!  _ " Gwaine shouts from his position on the table—and yes, the shouting and table-standing is indeed necessary, because the armory is full to the brim with panicked knights running to and fro, talking in loud, nervous voices. Owain doesn't think everyone was this freaked out when they were invaded by the mean dragon. "We don't have much time before Princess—I mean, Crown Prince Arthur Pendragon—gets here, so this may be my only opportunity to ask this of you:  _ Does everyone have at least three handkerchiefs on them  _ ? I repeat, does everyone have at least—"

"I only have two," Percival interrupts anxiously, patting himself down. "Oh no, what happens if I only have two—"

Owain is then treated to the singularly unique sight of Elyan vaulting over two tables, shoving aside a rack of throwing knives—sending them all skittering across the floor; the squire tasked with sorting them again won't be pleased—, and kicking his way through a pile of swords, all to frantically shove a handkerchief into Percival's waiting hand. "Do not lose this, okay, Percy? We don't know  _ how  _ much Arthur's going to cry—"

Percival nods vehemently.

"What do we do if Arthur has an emotional breakdown?" Lancelot asks, desperately flipping through the notes he took yesterday. "Do we tell Uther? It might make him take mercy—"

" _ No!  _ " Leon bellows, eyes wild. "Do not, under any circumstances, tell Uther! It's just going to make everything worse! He might think a longer separation is necessary—"

"Alright, alright!" Gwaine says hastily. "No one tell Uther!"

"Isn't that treason?" Owain feels the need to ask. 

"Probably," all the knights chorus.

Lancelot whispers something into Gwaine's ear, and Gwaine straightens on the table, clapping his hands together. "Absolutely right, Lancelot—Percival! You're on hug duty. The moment he looks close to losing it, you need to hug him as soon as possible—"

"I give you my word," Percival says solemnly.

Owain slips out of the armory before he loses all faith in humanity. 

+++

"Gaius," Merlin starts. "Gaius, can I climb onto the roof?"

Gaius drops his potion vial. "Why—Merlin, why would you want to do that?"

"Because," Merlin says, staring sadly down at his uneaten porridge, "I need to watch Arthur train, without the guards breathing down my neck. Make sure he's alright, you know. That he won't accidentally get impaled by his sword."

“Merlin,” Gaius says, “Arthur has been training to fight since he could walk. I doubt he’ll accidentally impale himself with his own sword.”

“He won’t if  _ I’m  _ watching him,” Merlin agrees, eyeing the window with renewed interest.

Gaius puts a lock on it, and pretends not to notice Merlin’s glaring.

+++

In a truly mesmerizing display of luck, Owain is chosen to spar with the Crown Prince during training.

This would be bad enough on a normal day, when Arthur wants to hack anyone that so much as looks at him into pieces, but today it is positively  _ bizarre.  _

Arthur doesn't talk at all, just vaguely gestures at them all to get into position. His eyes are suspiciously red-rimmed, as if he sobbed himself to sleep, and Owain would  _ maybe  _ think of using this opportunity to get a victory over the Crown Prince under his belt, except the rest of the knights are glaring at him in a way that tells him, in no uncertain terms, that if he does so, he'll have a few broken bones by tomorrow.

Except it's rather difficult to  _ not  _ use this against him, especially because Arthur now has the attention span of a squirrel on mead. He's either glancing at the sides of the training ground—where Merlin used to watch him—, or the armory—where Merlin used to polish armor and weapons—, or the castle windows—presumably to catch a glance of Merlin, or literally  _ anywhere but the weapon currently being thrusted at him _ .

Owain didn't mean to disarm Arthur, no matter how mystified he was. Really. But there's only so many times you can pretend to fight a pretty much inactive person without accidentally sending their sword clattering to the ground.

Arthur stares at it for a long, long time, and just when Owain is starting to get worried, he whispers quietly, "Merlin always hated sparring."

He bursts into tears.

Percival gives him a hug.

+++

Uther was  _ right  _ to be afraid. 

It's the weekly council meeting, and that's usually difficult enough without the council collectively acting like they've  _ lost their minds _ .

It starts quite normally: Lord Archibald—the man Uther is sure must have taken a blood oath, sometime in his life, to annoy Uther to death— yells about the necessity of another weekly report on the grain count. Uther, who can barely make it through one grain count report a week without bashing his head on the wall from boredom, fiercely opposes this.

What starts as a civil discussion quickly dissolves into a shouting match, and Uther is one insult away from bodily launching himself at the man. But then, surprisingly, Archibald turns to Arthur—who is slouching in his chair and has refused to make eye contact with any living being for more than thirty minutes— and asks, gentle as can be, "Do you have any opinion on this, sire?"

Uther is dumbfounded, to say the least, because Archibald has made it no secret that he despises the very  _ sight  _ of Arthur. (Uther's fairly certain he was responsible for half the assassination attempts last year alone.) And his tone isn't buttery, like he's trying to win a favor, but almost pitying.

Well, whatever Archibald's motivation was, it was clearly wasted, because Arthur doesn't even answer, just continues to stare at his goblet of wine as if it's done him some sort of great personal wrong.

Later, when Lady Elaine is talking about the need to lower taxes, she asks Arthur tenderly, "Do you have any opinion on this, sire?"

"No," Arthur answers gruffly.

Nevertheless, Lady Elaine nods understandingly and says, sounding like she truly means it, "Thank you for your contribution, sire. I know that—that without your manservant, things have been extremely... difficult for you."

No.  _ No.  _ She did  _ not _ . Uther understands peasants choosing to over-involve themselves in the lives of the royalty—after all, they must need some entertainment once in a while, and watching men try to hack each other to death in the tournaments he throws probably gets boring after a while—but the  _ nobility _ ?

Well. Maybe Lady Elaine's just gone round the bend. Yes. That makes much more sense.

But then all the rest of the council begins to nod fervently, sliding a multitude of Get-Well-Soon and I'm-Sorry-For-Your-Loss cards across the table. 

Uther dismisses the lot of them before they can notice the frustrated tears welling in his eyes. 

+++

Leon is abruptly woken up in the middle of the night by frantic knocking at his door.

"The Crown Prince requires you, sire," the maid says, nervously wringing her hands. "He says it's an emergency."

Leon rushes to Arthur's chambers, a thousand scenarios running through his head. Is it the monthly magical-creature-invades-Camelot situation and they all have to pointlessly swing their swords at it while Merlin slinks around, looking all shifty?

He mentally counts back the days. It's Monday. Yes, magical creatures certainly have an affinity for attacking on the most miserable day of the week. 

When he bursts into his chambers, however, Arthur's not shoving himself into armor but sitting at his desk, staring forlornly out the window like a lovestruck maiden while twirling a quill in his hand.

Leon sighs, "There is no emergency, is there?"

" _ Of course  _ there's an emergency!" Arthur wails, running his fingers through his hair as he shifts his gaze from the window to the parchment in front of him. Black ink covers it. "I need your help, Leon."

"For what?"

Arthur exhales slowly, looking troubled, before leaning across the table. "Leon, you're my closest— _ second _ closest friend," he corrects, and Leon tries not to be too offended. "This is a matter of the highest secrecy. You must--you must give your word…”

Leon waits, then prods, “Yes, sire?”

Arthur meets his eyes with surprising forcefulness. “That you will never,  _ ever,  _ even under risk of death or torture, divulge the events of today with another living, breathing being.”

"Of course, sire," Leon says, frowning. "What's wrong?"

"I'm writing," Arthur says heavily, burying his head in his hands, "poetry."

Leon opens his mouth, then closes it. Then opens it again. Before closing it. " _ Poetry _ , sire?"

"Yes, poetry," Arthur confirms grimly.

"Poetry."

"Yes. Poetry. For Merlin."

"Poetry."

Arthur scowls. "Is there something wrong with that?"

"No, sire," Leon says. "Nothing at all."

"Good," Arthur huffs, crossing his arms, looking absolutely miserable. "Now, imagine you were separated from the most precious person in your life for a week. The person you cannot live without. The person who haunts your subconscious when they’re not there. How would you tell them how much you missed them?"

"Well," Leon says warily, choosing his words carefully. He doesn't need Arthur bursting into tears again. "I would tell them what I like most about them."

"I  _ tried  _ that," Arthur says. "I don't think it turned out very well, though."

"Well, show me," Leon says, hoping he doesn't regret this. "Maybe I can offer you some helpful advice."

Arthur looks hesitant, but he must be  _ really  _ desperate for advice, because he clears his throat and reads:

' _ Your neckerchief is red, _

_ your shirt is blue. _

_ Without your annoying smile and bad wardrobe choices, _

_ I don't know what I'd do _ .'

There is a stunned silence.

"Um," Leon says. "Um."

"I told you," Arthur mumbles.

"It's not  _ that  _ bad," Leon lies through his teeth. "It just needs more...more originality."

Arthur's brow furrows. "Originality?”

"Yes," Leon says. "Something to show Merlin that you really care about him, and didn't just steal a five-year-old's poem for his crush."

Arthur makes an affronted noise. "I will have you know, I spent hours on this."

_ Hours _ ? "Be as it may, sire."

“Well, how many words do  _ you  _ know that rhyme with Merlin?” 

“I’m sure,” Leon says consolingly, “we can figure something out.”

They cannot figure something out.

By the end of their poetry session—called that for lack of a better word to describe flipping frantically through books to find rhyming words, a grand total of fifteen pieces of parchment ripped to shreds, and at least three goblets thrown across the room in frustration—they have only this to show for an end result:

‘ _ You’re great at riding horses, _

_ and making my bed. _

_ I’m pretty sure that without you, _

_ I would really, really be dead.’ _

Leon is ready to start again when Arthur, beaming, announces, “Fantastic!”

And Leon would normally try to save Arthur’s dignity by arguing, he really, really would, but he’s  _ exhausted _ , so he simply asks, “How do you plan for Merlin to see this, sire? The King said you were not allowed to have any contact whatsoever with Merlin.”

“You’ll deliver it, of course.”

A beat. “Of course, sire.”

  
  
  
+++  
  


“For  _ me _ ?” Merlin says disbelievingly, holding the envelope with the poem inside almost reverently. Leon had had to give the guard outside a hefty bribe to look the other way when he entered the physician’, since apparently ‘mail’ counts as ‘contact with Merlin’. 

“Yes,” Leon says gently. “Though if you don’t want to read it, that’s perfectly fine with me. More than fine, actually. I’d even recommend it.” He reaches out to grab the envelope back.

Merlin makes an affronted noise, as if he’s never heard anything more insulting, and holds the envelope out of Leon’s reach. “ _ Of course _ I’m going to read it! What do you take me for, an ungrateful heathen?” Shaking his head, he rips the envelope open.

Leon holds his breath as Merlin’s eyes scan the parchment, waiting for disappointment, hurt, offense—

Merlin gasps, tears welling in his eyes. Leon, cringing, has just started to reach for his handkerchief when Merlin sobs--yes, actually  _ sobs _ , “This is  _ beautiful _ .”

Leon blinks. “It is?”

“It is!”

“Yes. It is. Of course.”

Merlin’s eyes hungrily rake the parchment again, drinking in every word like a man dying of thirst. “He complimented my  _ bed-making _ abilities!  _ And  _ my riding ones! And look here, Gaius—he finally accepts he’d be dead without me!” He pauses, suddenly. “Come to think of it, are you  _ sure  _ that Arthur didn’t almost bleed to death or something yesterday? They say your whole life flashes before your eyes, and that’s the only way I could possibly imagine—”

Gaius, thankfully, takes pity on Leon. “I’ll lead you out, sire,” he says firmly. “I’m sure you must by very busy—”

“Yes!” Leon agrees, never mind that it’s the middle of the night. “Very busy!” He quickly slides an extra handkerchief across the table at Merlin, who’s still blabbering on.

As Leon walks out—well, more like controlledly jogs—alright, as he  _ flees _ , he can hear Merlin say to Gaius, “Oh no, what if this  _ is  _ an impostor? Or maybe Arthur’s under mind control. I  _ told  _ you, Gaius, told you something bad might happen, but does anyone ever listen to Merlin? No, absolutely not, everyone in this kingdom seems to have an allergy to listening to me—”

The guard outside clicks his tongue. “At least you don’t have to put up with this all day,” he says to Leon, jerking his head towards the open door.

Leon sighs for what must be the hundred and third time that day. 

His only hope is that Merlin and Arthur don’t make this a regular thing.

So, needless to say, Merlin and Arthur make this a regular thing. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos are writer's fuel!
> 
> Also, please don't comment something along the lines of 'please update.' Don't get me wrong, I love that you want to know what happens next, and of course I'm not angry at anyone who commented this last chapter, but comments like that make me, as a person with anxiety, extremely stressed about updating. Thank you <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poetry. Knights who are Done (tm). More poetry. Oh, and a sorceress attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> final chapter!!

When Morgana bursts awake from a nightmare, sweat making its way down her forehead and a vase shattering, she knows one thing:

Merlin and Arthur's forced separation is about to get much, _much_ worse. 

+++

“The Crown Prince,” Leon says the next morning, eyeing the armory wall in a way that suggests he would love nothing more than to bash his head against it once or twice or ten times, “will not be attending training today.”

And apparently Owain still hasn’t learned his lesson, because he asks, “Why?”

Leon takes a huge swig from the flask he’s taken to carrying around and sighs, “Poetry.”

  
  
  
+++

This, apparently, calls for another emergency meeting. Which means more crowding in the armory, more panicked talking, and more headaches for Owain.

“You know,” Elyan says thoughtfully, “maybe this isn’t that bad. Poetry's cathartic, right? Maybe Arthur just needs to lock himself in a room for a couple of hours, write down some verses, and sob for a couple more hours."

"You're only saying that because you don't know how _bad_ those verses were," Leon snaps. He's taking his trauma very seriously, and is extremely defensive to anyone who suggests it wasn't as bad as he says. "If anyone else gets their hands on them, they'd have quality blackmail material. They're simply _horrendous_ . The person could buy the whole kingdom, the poems are _that_ embarrassing."

"Arthur doesn't really have the power to sell the kingdom, though, does he?" Owain points out.

"Uther does," Leon says grimly. "He'd do anything to avoid embarrassment, and believe me, being the father of the person who wrote those poems is dishonoring enough in its own right."

"Just burn them, then," Gwaine says, rolling his eyes. "It's not that big of a deal."

"I _would_ ," Leon says fervently, "except Merlin is ready to defend those poems with his life."

"We need to guard Merlin and Arthur's rooms," Lancelot murmurs, frowning. "Make sure no one gets ahold of those poems, you know. Owain--" Owain jumps at the sound of his name; there goes his plan of faking the bubonic plague or whatever will sufficiently justify him barricading himself in his room and refusing to come out. "--Percival, and I will guard Arthur. Gwaine and Elyan will take Merlin."

"What about me?" Leon asks despondently.

"You," Lancelot says kindly, "will go to sleep."

"No problem," Gwaine says smugly. "Merlin, at least, has some dignity."

+++

Merlin, Gwaine decides, really does _not_ have any dignity.

He doesn't understand. Merlin definitely had some when they first met. What happened between then and now? Was it the Gaius-being-possessed-by-a-goblin debacle that tarnished it forever? Was it the whole Uther-ordering-everyone-in-the-castle-to-be-executed-when-he-mistakenly-believed-Gwen-and-Arthur-were-courting thing that tossed it into the fire and watched, smugly, as it dissolved into little more than ashes? Was it--

"One poem, Gwaine," Merlin begs, gazing up at him with those doe-like eyes, and _God,_ those eyes are a greater weapon than anything in the armory, "writing one poem with me is all I ask for."

"Just do it with Gaius," Gwaine says, nearly in tears himself.

"I would," Merlin says, "except I think that if I ask again, he's going to poison my food."

"Fine," sighs Gwaine, "but only _one_."

+++

They write a lot more than one. 

Some are more better than others--there is a particularly stirring one, for example, which compares Merlin to the sun and Arthur to a rude, ungrateful flower who soaks up all of Merlin's light and refuses to do anything in return. Others are...not so well thought-out--namely, the fifty-verse long soliliquoy that compares Arthur to a dandelion, because apparently Merlin has significant underlying trauma from being forced to comb out the knots in Arthur's hair daily. 

"Are you," Elyan starts, gazing almost fearfully at the tall stack of parchment, "Merlin, are you going to send _all_ of them?"

"Yes," Merlin sniffs, turning his nose up. "Is that a problem?"

"No," Gwaine says at the same time Elyan says, "Yes."

They look at each other.

"Legally," Elyan says, "it's treason for us to deliver these. And while I'm perfectly fine with breaking the law--it's been a long time since I've done that, I've missed it--to deliver one or two, how are we going to cart _fifty_ sheets of parchment from here to the other side of the castle without anyone getting suspicious?"

"Technically, it's only forty-nine sheets," Merlin calls. 

"The point stands," Elyan says.

"Oh--never mind, I found two more. Fifty one sheets, Elyan!"

"You're right," Gwaine announces grimly. "We need back up."

+++

The back up is surprisingly eager about committing treason.

"Ooh, we'd be thrilled to," Gwen crows when they tell her about having to sneak poetry from Merlin to Arthur. "Sir Leon cracked in his room and told his manservant all about the poetry, so the kitchen staff is already setting up a home base."

"Oh," Gwaine says, who was fully prepared to give bribes if need be, "okay, then."

+++

Owain will never think badly of Leon again. Ever. Even if his life depends on it. Because that man is a walking miracle for managing to survive all... _this_.

" _Think,_ Lancelot, Percival, Owain," Arthur barks, practically tearing his hair out, "what is _one_ word that rhymes with _Merlin_?"

"Burden," Percival suggests.

"German," Lancelot says.

"Curtain?" Owain says, only it comes out more like a question. 

" _Curtain!_ " Arthur exclaims, snapping his fingers, a manic gleam in his eyes. He leans down and begins scrawling on a piece of parchment, tongue poking out in concentration as he murmurs, "You, _Merlin_...are the _curtain_...and my life is the _stage_...without you I would _rage..._ the story of my life wouldn't be able to turn another _page_..."

"Is it just me," Percival whispers to them, "or is he actually getting better?"

"Just you," Lancelot and Owain say together. 

  
  


+++

  
  


“How are we going to deliver all of these?” Lancelot hisses, looking at the teetering stack of parchment with blatant fear in his eyes. 

“I don’t know!" Owain moans. "Do you think he'll know if we just throw some of them in the _fire,_ or--"

Arthur, who apparently has the hearing of a hawk, calls from the adjourning room, "I'll know, believe me! So if you're attached to your head, you'll deliver it!"

Not the most creative threat, as these things go, but it _does_ adequately get the point across. 

"Alright," Percvial says, eyes wild, "maybe if we all just stuff it into our clothes, and say we gained an unfortunate amount of weight--"

Owain puts a hand on his stomach protectively. "I'm not doing that!" he says. "I still have a _dignity,_ you know--"

"I'm sure," Lancelot says faintly, "that you won't be thinking very much about dignity when Arthur sends us to be executed as punishment for dishonoring his poems--"

But then, at that moment, Gwen, the angel of all angels, the miracle giver of all miracle givers, the one who shall be rewarded most handsomely in the afterlife, appears with five servants in tow and says, grinning, "How would you like for us to help you with that?"

Owain nearly sobs with relief. 

  
  
  


+++

  
  


Uther is only taking a pleasant stroll around the castle, really.

He just feels the sudden need to disguise himself as a servant. And travel mostly by the secret passages in the castle walls. 

A few days ago, he would never have dreamed of going undercover in his own castle. But that was before Arthur made the decision to go insane, the nobility and townspeople agreed this was a very good idea and followed his example, and Gaius looked ready to break down crying at the merest mention of Arthur.

So when he notices that the castle staff are all acting extremely suspiciously--talking in hushed tones, eyes darting around suspiciously, holding baskets close to their chests--Uther decides he really has nothing more to lose and begins to investigate the entire thing himself.

He spies a group of servants bunching up in an alcove in the wall and stops to listen. Not to eavesdrop, of course, because this is _his_ castle and he doesn’t have to eavesdrop.

“--and take _this one_ ,” a woman is saying firmly, handing a basket to a young squire who looks as though he’s about to squirm out of his skin with excitement, “to base Phoenix. Hand it over to Agent Ocean, _no one_ else, and then--”

“No, no, no,” a maid interrupts. Uther vaguely recognizes her as the woman he tried to order to death after mistakenly believing she was courting Arthur. He isn’t all that guilty--it isn’t _his_ fault he thought Arthur was too emotionally inept to make friends, just friends, with women. “We received intelligence from Communication Line Dragon that a bunch of knights are loitering over at Phoenix. Take it to Base Basilisk, and then to Base Manticore, and then--”

“That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard,” the first woman says sharply. “Base Manticore is in clear danger of being compromised--”

Unfortunately, they decide to take their conversation elsewhere by that point, and their voices drift off as they move away. Uther leans against the wall, breathing heavily.

What is the _matter_ with his servants? The code names, the bases, the communication lines, it almost sounds like--

The thought makes his blood run cold. 

Is his staff planning a _rebellion_? 

Why? Uther treats them perfectly well. True, he ignores all their petitions for pay raises, and regularly threatens to execute them if they're practicing sorcery, and never exactly says _thank you_ when they serve him, but--

On second thought, it's abundantly clear why they're plotting an uprising.

Uther slowly slides down to the floor, hands fisted in his hair and trying desperately to quell the tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. 

+++

  
  
When Uther gets back to his chambers, he immediately sets to work.

The first priority in any scene of chaos is to protect the king--him. The servants' idea of a revolt must be to grab some pitchforks and start kicking down everything in sight, so the best thing to do is barricade the door.

The desk is the most obvious thing to use. As are the statues he ordered brought in before locking them in a closet twelve hours later, because their blank, unseeing eyes made it extremely hard to sleep and he couldn't swallow his pride long enough to order the same people who carted them in to cart them back out because the king was _scared_.

It sounds quite simple, so Uther really has no idea why he's huffing and puffing after two minutes of exertion.

Okay, so maybe he should have taken a bit more of a part in the tournaments he threw instead of just sitting in the balcony, but it's _much_ more entertaining to watch other people suffer than to suffer yourself.

Maybe this is why Arthur's so grumpy all the time.

Uther manages to drag the desk all of two feet before he has to keel over.

The desk's legs have left black skid marks over the floor, and it seems oddly metaphorical of his current state of mind.

So, no desk. Statues?

Only, the statues seem rather angry about being locked up in a dusty closet for who _knows_ how long--Uther's long since stopped keeping track--and he can swear their eyes have a certain indignant gleam. 

"This is ridiculous," Uther mutters, staring down the statue in question--a head bust of some ancestor or another seated on a four feet long column. "You are going to help defend your kin, good sir, or die trying."

But the issue _now_ is that dragging the statues along the floor isn't helpful, because apparently the fragile material that has withstood natural disasters and assaults on the castle cannot be rubbed along the stone floor without parts of it chipping away. Uther has to stop after a few feet, because by the time he gets to the door--which is on a _whole different side of the room_ \--there won't be much of a _statue_ left.

The next solution would be to carry the dang thing, but the person who constructed it must have had no sense of balance whatsoever, because no sooner has Uther tried to pick it up than he ends up toppling to the ground, the statue landing on top of him, nearly crushing his lungs.

"Ow," Uther says succintly.

By the time the warning bells start to ring, Uther's given up and is stacking decorative plates against the door. 

+++

Uther didn't really expect the plates to have much defensive or structural properties, but it _is_ a bit offensive when the first person bursting into the room manages to knock them all over.

It's Sir Leon, his eyes frantic and clearly bursting with news, but when he sees the plates strewn across the ground, the life or death situation they are in is apparently forgotten. "Sire?"

"I was," Uther says flatly, "er, building a statue. A piece of art, you know." He's probably going to die, and he doesn't want what actually happened mentioned at his funeral.

"With plates?" Leon asks disbelievingly.

"With plates," Uther confirms. 

Uther flinches as Leon's gaze falls on the grotesquely off-angle desk, the head bust that's staring forlornly at the ceiling, and the open closet door, which reveals the statues still stuffed inside. "You had something to tell me, Leon?" he asks as Leon opens his mouth.

"Oh. Right." He clears his throat. "Sire, we're under attack."

"Yes, I know," Uther sighs. "Servants revolting and all that. I guess they think I should have said _thank you_ more often."

Leon shoots him a look of utter confusion. "What?"

Uther scowls. "There's no need to rub it in."

"There's no revolt, sire," Leon says slowly, as if talking to someone exceptionally dim. "Just a sorceress. An extremely vengeful one. One who is currently _blowing up the courtyard_."

Oh.

Uther wonders if it's wrong to feel relieved at a time like this.

+++

Uther's not foolish enough to think that the servants would be above hiring a sorceress to do the dirty work for them, but when he arrives at the courtyard, they're all sprinting to and fro, screaming in terror, and generally not being on the winning side.

The winning side, in this case, is the sorceress standing in the middle of the courtyard. Spells are falling from her tongue with frightening ease, and with each flash of gold in her eyes, a part of the castle wall explodes or is set on fire. Smoke lies heavily in the air, obscuring Uther's vision, but he can vaguely see a waterfall of blonde hair tumbling down the sorceress's back.

As Uther watches, Morgana--of all people--rushes at her, adeptly twirling a sword in her hand. Another knight follows, but the sorceress blows them both back with a wave of her hand.

"Your own _sister_!" the sorceress screams at Morgana. "You would dishonor and betray your own family, your own flesh and blood, for the sake of a tyrannical kingdom that would love to see nothing more than--"

Morgana sticks up her middle finger.

The sorceress gasps.

"Where is the Crown Prince?" Uther barks at Leon. "Where is Arthur?"

Leon simply shakes his head, looking resigned. 

"And _you_!" the sorceress shrieks, her lips curling into a snarl as she stares at something in the midst of the smoke. Her eyes burn gold again as an unnatural wind picks up, blowing all the smoke away.

Uther blinks.

Then blinks again. And a third time, just in case he's seeing things.

"You see?" Leon says defeatedly.

Arthur and Merlin are sitting atop a large pile of rubble, chatting amicably to each other, as though they've gone miraculously deaf to the world around them. Arthur isn't even wearing armor, doesn't have a single knife or sword on him, and Merlin, unless Uther's mind is deluding him, is actually _serving tea_ , pouring it into a steaming cup to give to Arthur.

"No," Uther says shortly.

"Yes, unfortunately," Leon responds apologetically. "They seem to believe a sorceress's attack is a perfect opportunity to spend time together without anyone stopping them."

The sorceress is talking again, launching into the obligatory villain speech, because apparently sorcerers cannot get anything accomplished unless they hand out their entire resume first. "I," she announces grandly, "am Morgause, here to burn Camelot to the ground."

Arthur ignores her, handing his now empty tea cup back to Merlin. Merlin fills it back up.

Morgaus frowns, clearly confused about the lack of attention her speech is getting. She continues, "Fall to my feet, Arthur Pendragon, and beg for mercy!"

Merlin hisses something unintelligible to Arthur, and they both dissolve into snickers.

"Or I will make you watch as I burn every stone of your castle to the ground!"

Arthur and Merlin lean onto the surface of the rubble and begin to arm wrestle.

"And kill every single person you love, one by one, until you are the only one that is left!"

Arthur wins the arm wrestle. Merlin's pout is unmistakable. They begin to play again.

"You will be alone, Arthur Pendragon, rotting away in a prison cell, nothing more than a reminder of my triumph!"

Arthur wins again. Merlin's pout grows. They lock hands and start to thumb wrestle. 

Morgause is red as a beet now. She booms, "As a High Priestess of the Old Religion, as a channel of the magic that runs through every vein of the world itself, I demand that you pay attention to me!" 

Merlin, shockingly, wins the thumb wrestle. Bolstered by his euphoria, his head snaps up, and his gaze settles on Morgause.

He blinks, as if seeing her for the first time. "Oh, hello," he says politely, "when did you get there?"

Arthur looks similarly confused.

Morgause squawks in outrage.

Leon head smacks.

Morgause's eyes narrow at Merlin, and she grits her teeth. "I'll kill you first."

"No, thank you," Merlin replies pleasantly. "I've just reunited with Arthur, you see, and dying isn't exactly on my list of objectives. Besides, Gaius is probably very mad at me for sneaking out, and--"

"I'm not just _probably_ mad at you, Merlin!" a voice calls furiously from the castle.

"See?" Merlin says. "I think he's earned dibs on being the one to off me, since he had to deal with me for six years, whereas I never knew you existed until today, so..." He shrugs.

"The math does add up," Arthur agrees thoughtfully, rubbing at his chin.

"Oh, don't worry." Morgause attempts an evil laugh, but it only comes out as a strained chuckle. "You'll be next."

And with that, she reels back her arm before thrusting it forward, yelling a spell at top of her lungs. Her eyes ignite into searing, searing gold, stronger than even a lighthouse in the midst of a storm, and a burning red light streaks towards Arthur.

Uther stops breathing.

But a split second before the red light makes contact, Merlin's-- _Merlin_ , of all people, who trips over things that it shouldn't be physically possible to trip over and is generally extremely incompetent--eyes burn a similar gold, except slightly lighter. No words escape his mouth, but a golden globe surrounds the pile of rubble. The red spell slams into it and, with a nauseating squelch, fizzles out.

Morgause seems shocked, her eyes wide and disbelieving as she stumbles backwards. "Emrys," she breathes, shaking her head wildly. " _Emrys_."

Merlin grins, a savage barring of his teeth. "Hello."

"You--" she says disbelievingly, "--you would protect _him_?" She jerks her head at Arthur.

"You know," Merlin says thoughtfully, "I don't know why I do that, either. He never appreciates me."

"Yes, I _do_ ," Arthur insists. "I wrote you some poems."

"My poems were better," Merlin sniffs.

"You would compare me to a _dandelion_ , of all things? Why a flower, Merlin? You should have done a prickly vine, at least. Or--"

"Oh, I did," Merlin says brightly. "But it was one of the last ones I wrote. I don't think you've read it yet."

"Oh," Arthur says, blinking. "I look forward to it."

Merlin nods, misty-eyed.

Uther wants to die. 

Morgause stomps her foot on the ground. " _No!_ " she screams. " _I_ put in all the work to invade this kingdom, _I_ nearly burned the castle to the ground, _I_ will become the next queen of Camelot, and you will _pay attention to me!_ Not your... _idiotic poetry!"_

Everyone in the courtyard freezes, collectively sucking in a breath.

Uther is being to feel a bad case of deja vu.

Merlin straightens suddenly, a storm passing his face: his brow furrows, his lips flatten, and if looks could kill, Morgause would be a puddle of ashes on the ground. " _Do not_ ," he hisses, "under _any_ circumstances whatsoever, _insult Arthur's poetry_."

"But isn't that what he just did?" Uther whispers to Leon.

Leon shrugs helplessly.

Morgause opens her mouth to argue, but before she can, Merlin roars, " _Yangin acicak!"_

Morgause doesn't even have time to react--one moment, she's standing there, utterly infuriated, and the next, she's trapped in a wall of flame. Uther can feel the heat waves rolling off the fire, but it doesn't spread to anything else, just stays there, trapping Morgause in an impenetrable cage. 

She tries to break through--the whole courtyard can hear her begin screaming spells, and her high-pitched tone continues to get more and more ear-splitting--but the wall of flames stays strong.

Everyone in the courtyard bursts into applause.

Even Leon, the _traitor_.

Merlin doesn't even seem to appreciate it, because he goes right back to thumb wrestling with Arthur.

And then, just as suddenly, the applause dies down, and Uther can sense every single eye on him.

And in _any other situation_ , Uther would order Merlin to be executed as soon as possible, he really, really would, but his blood runs cold at the thought of how Arthur will react. If he can't even retain his sanity for _a single week_ \--no, scratch that, _a single day_ \--without Merlin tending to his every need, what will he be like for a _month_? A _year?_

For the rest of his _lifetime_?

_Camelot will be burned to the ground_ , Uther answers himself.

"Yes, whatever," he mumbles, waving his hand in Merlin's general direction, beginning to feel the traces of a headache. "Go on living, I suppose. Be useless. And codependent. Or whatever. Just...don't let me see you do that again."

And with that, he flees to his chambers, with its creepy statues and ornamental plates and off-angle desks.

As he does so, he can swear he hears one of the new knight recruits--Owain, Uther thinks his name is--yell, "Oh, thank _God._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and thus the fic ends!
> 
> thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who commented so far. this fic was a joy to write from start to finish, and your comments made it even more worthwhile. thank you, and stay safe! <3

**Author's Note:**

> i am a lowly author in desperate need of validation. Please, leave a comment and stroke an ego :)


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